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At A Jeweller's Window

YEA, they are very fair, these fretted things
That man has fashioned for his art's delight,
And some small meed of profit—great or slight,
As Wealth dictates, or Fashion's balance swings.
I, being simple, feel no spell that clings
To such brave panoply of prisoned light;
Yon bleak-souled brilliants' frosty lure despite,
I count it coldly—bracelets, brooches, rings.

But bring to me from gray old Samarkand
A rough rock-fragment starred with those blue eyes
That keep the hidden gates of life and death,
And, with a sudden catching of the breath,
I feel (as one who touches The All-Wise)
The heart of Asia beating in my hand.

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